


Equine Therapy

by Sed



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Jean-Luc is finally enjoying a quiet ride and some time to himself. It doesn't last long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 QCard Big Bang, and based on [this art](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/QcardBigBang/works/11965590) by [Paratale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Paratale/pseuds/Paratale).

The air was crisp and cool against his skin, faintly damp from the rising mist caused by dew burning off in the early sunlight. Each breath he took was answered by the billowing curl of an exhalation, and the anticipation of the next and the taste of the morning in his lungs. Jean-Luc smiled and stroked the arch of his horse’s neck below the shower of her loose mane. He’d chosen a bay Appaloosa mare with a nearly solid blanket of white across her hips, like snowfall over the path of a bare forest. The ride was steady and relaxing, and he quickly lost himself in the fractured light peering between the leaves, lulled by the rhythm of the horse’s steady gait. Jean-Luc rode for some time this way, calm and quiet and thoroughly enjoying his first uninterrupted leave in what may have been years.

He enjoyed it right up until the very moment it _was_ interrupted.

Over the sound of his Appaloosa’s hooves he caught the heavy and distinctive canter of a larger beast approaching. It wasn’t long before the rider and her mount—a rather hulking black Percheron—pulled up at his side. The larger horse threw his head and Jean-Luc’s mare sidestepped nervously.

“Good morning!” the woman said cheerfully, inclining her chin as she caught his eye. Her brown curls were held back in a loose ribbon, although a great deal had escaped to become hopelessly tangled. The imperfections ended there, however; in every other way she was immaculate, down to the soles of her knee-high boots, placed too far forward in the stirrup. Not a nick in the leather to be seen, nor so much as a speck of dust on her white pants. Even her gloves lacked any wear or creases that Jean-Luc could find.

He lifted his eyes to hers and smiled politely. “Indeed,” he said.

“Enjoying this beautiful spring weather?”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed, “quite a bit.” He refrained from returning the question and providing her an opportunity to continue the conversation.

Unfortunately, and perhaps predictably, she seemed wholly unfazed by the challenge. “It’s a perfect day for riding,” she said, lifting her shoulders in an exaggerated, happy sigh and peering up at the blue sky overhead. “I just love the smell of the forest and the cool breeze…” When Jean-Luc declined to answer she cleared her throat and added, “What brings you out here?”

“Surely even you must be growing tired of this charade?” Jean-Luc asked, suddenly weary of the game. Too weary to bother at all, in fact.

The woman beside him sat up straight in her saddle, dark eyes wide as they took him in. “Pardon me?” she asked, and for a stomach-dropping moment Jean-Luc feared he’d been wrong.

He took a deep breath and held it, biting back on the awkward explanation that was already forming in the back of his mind; he’d made a fool of himself before, he knew what to say to minimize the damage. But something told him that despite the shocked, offended stare boring into the side of his skull at the moment, he wasn’t wrong. It kept him silent.

Long enough, it turned out, to force the truth.

“You really are no fun, Jean-Luc,” the woman sighed peevishly. A bright flash, and she rematerialized in the familiar form of Q, still riding astride the black Percheron. His riding attire had changed as well; his black riding jacket was buttoned tightly over a crisp white shirt, its top three buttons left open as though he’d simply forgotten. His boots—still too high in the stirrups—were knee-high, but the leather had become thicker, and bunched slightly around his ankles. He’d changed from the immaculate white pants into a pair of tan breeches which, Jean-Luc discovered with a minor start, left very little to the imagination while he rode astride the large draft. He’d quite literally topped off his ensemble with a short top hat, his brown curls peeking out from below the brim. It gave him the appearance of some strange cross between a devilish Edwardian rake and a twenty-first century Olympic jumper. Jean-Luc had no doubt that he’d either planned for that effect down to the last detail, or been so careless that it simply happened by accident. There could be no in between with Q.

“Am I not permitted _one_ day of peace, Q?” he asked, making no effort to hide his disdain.

“If you’re referring to time spent absent my company—which I think we both know you are, and don’t assume for one second that I’m not wounded by the implications to be found there—then by my count you’ve had ninety-six days of peace. It’s a bit selfish to demand more, if you ask me.”

“I _didn’t_ ask you. No one ever asks you, Q, you simply invite yourself to provide the answers regardless.” Halfway through his rant, Jean-Luc stopped himself and turned at the waist. “May I ask, why the deceit? Why a—” He realized the answer before he’d even finished asking. With a low groan, he turned to face forward again. “You are incorrigible.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, I can only assume it’s wildly offensive.”

 _I’m offensive_ , Jean-Luc thought with a private chuckle. Certainly, in all his grand omnipotence, the one thing Q lacked was self-awareness. “Well,” he began, pulling the reins into a more comfortable position in his hands. “Your little ruse has been uncovered; you can return to wherever it is you’ve been for the past…”

“Ninety-six days,” Q reminded him. “By your standards, of course.”

“Oh, I think you know very little of my standards, Q,” Jean-Luc muttered. Of course he’d known of Q’s unusual… affection… for him. Whatever passed for affection among his kind, at any rate. He’d first become aware of it when Data mentioned it so casually during the incident with the temporal paradox. While repairing the effects of the anomaly had effectively reversed all events as he’d experienced them, and the conversation in the briefing room had never actually occurred in the present timeline, it nevertheless remained firmly fixed in the back of Jean-Luc’s mind. Especially so whenever he found his thoughts drifting back to the questionably benevolent and persistently forward entity. Q _liked_ him. What bothered Jean-Luc so much about it—apart from the obvious: that Q was an obnoxious pest at the best of times—was that he couldn’t tell just how far that fondness extended, or exactly what form it took. That it had taken the form of a beautiful woman that morning was a bit of a shock, naturally, but not entirely unexpected; Q _had_ once lamented not first appearing to him in a female form, after all.

Was that what he’d been trying to do? Start over?

No. Jean-Luc found himself shaking his head at the thought. Q would know better. And he’d always been above such base deceptions before. If his appearance that morning had been an attempt at seduction, it was bumbling and ineffective, and entirely unlike the usual care Q took to craft his little games. To say nothing of it clashing with his customary showmanship and the narcissistic streak that seemed to underline his very existence.

“You’re being so disagreeable this morning, Jean-Luc. I only thought you might like some company on your ride,” Q said defensively, and entirely unconvincing in his sincerity. “If this is what I get for my generosity, I might as well stop showing up at all.”

From the corner of his eye, Jean-Luc caught him frowning at himself. He assumed it was himself, anyway; Q had obviously realized the trap he’d set and promptly walked into on his own, and he was undoubtedly disappointed in his lack of forethought. Jean-Luc decided to be generous, although he couldn’t imagine why. “If only you meant that,” he said, a wry smile fixed on the path ahead.

Quickly finding his way back to form, Q threw his head back and laughed. It was empty, like most of his laughter when it wasn’t at the expense of lesser beings. “I would never deprive you of my company. Not for very long, anyway,” he admitted. “Whatever else you may say, I know the truth: you’re fond of me, Picard. I bring excitement and just a dash of chaos to your dull little life.”

“My _dull_ _little life_ has brought me beyond the edge of the galaxy and back, introduced me to worlds and ideas I might not have been able to imagine, and nearly killed me several times over. In fact, as I recall, I did die once.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, I was merely focusing on the more pleasant aspects of that particular incident.”

Q looked prepared to respond to his jab, but at the last second he clamped his jaw shut and smiled forward, instead. It showed remarkable restraint and instantly made Jean-Luc suspicious. He was there for a reason, after all. Q never did anything simply to do it, even if he frequently made it appear that way. That was a hard-learned lesson he had finally accepted during their last encounter.

“Would you prefer I leave?” Q asked finally. It seemed like an earnest question, which was doubly suspect.

Whatever the game this time, it seemed personal. Jean-Luc was intrigued enough to let it play out for the moment. That, and neither impassioned plea nor angered insistence had ever been enough to chase him away before, so there was no reason to assume it would work now. “You’re quite welcome to stay,” he shrugged. When Q’s head whipped about to fix an incredulous (and, he thought, perhaps equally suspicious) gaze upon him, Jean-Luc added, “Provided you tell me _why_ you’re here.”

“A morning spent in the company of you and your ample mistrust isn’t reason enough?” Q asked. He scoffed. “Very well, I’ll spare us both and skip straight to the end: I’m fond of you, Jean-Luc. It galls me to say it, but here we are. I wish to spend more time with you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

If might have been more satisfying for Q had he feigned surprised, but there was little point pretending; Q would see through it immediately, and there was no telling how he might react to a lie, even one told for his sake. “Well, I’m flattered, Q,” Jean-Luc said as kindly as he could manage. “But you must know any sort of…” He struggled to find the right words. How would one describe a relationship between a man and a capricious, god-like being with the self-control of an infant? _Relationship_ itself hardly seemed fitting. “Any sort of _liaison_ between you and I would be impossible. It is simply out of the question.”

“Are you turning me down, Picard?” Q asked. He seemed more offended by the very notion of his affections being met with refusal, rather than the refusal itself.

Jean-Luc turned in his saddle. “I am,” he said. “Although in my defense I _am_ trying to be polite about it, if you’d allow me.”

“What good are your silly human manners?” Q demanded. “Here I come to you with my heart on my sleeve—”

“You don’t have a heart, Q.”

“Is that _really_ a deal breaker for you, Jean-Luc? Because need I remind you, neither do you. It seems awfully hypocritical to demand it of your lovers.”

Jean-Luc was already regretting having humored Q yet again. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out a long sigh. “You are not my lover, Q,” he ground through teeth that fought to clench in frustration.

“Of course not,” Q scoffed. “Not yet, anyway.”

“I sincerely doubt  _ever_.”

If he had believed that Q possessed genuine feelings to _be_ hurt, he might have felt guilt over the stricken look that crossed the entity’s face for only as long as it took to register that it had been there at all. Q quickly schooled himself and sat straight in the saddle, and for a moment that seemed to have concluded the matter. Jean-Luc’s thoughts wandered in the brief silence, and he found himself wondering if the tack and the horse beneath it were merely conjured tricks, just like all the rest.

“Well, I won’t beg,” Q said loftily after a moment. He turned a sharp eye on Jean-Luc. “But if you would, answer me this: why not?” He quickly held up a hand when Jean-Luc frowned again. “I ask only out of self-interested curiosity,” he explained.

Jean-Luc refrained from mentioning that everything Q did was in the name of self-interest. Instead, he answered, “Because I know you, Q.” When that only earned him an open-mouthed frown that bordered on actual disgust, he added, “You have no self control, and no concept of personal boundaries _or_ the rights of other beings to simply exist as they are. You meddle with everything and everyone you encounter. Is it any wonder I would say no, Q? Could you imagine what it would be like, carrying on any sort of—of—” he huffed out a breath and forced himself to say it, “ _relationship_ with you?”

“I fail to understand what you find so objectionable about my presence!” Q complained petulantly. “Having me around would be immeasurably beneficial to you _and_ your whiny little flock of morons.” He made an apologetic gesture—also fake—and quickly corrected himself. “Your beloved _crew_. Hapless though they may be,” he tacked on to the end in a mutter too loud not to have been intentionally overheard.

Ignoring the insult to his crew for the moment, Jean-Luc said, “That’s just it, Q; you would be _right there_ , involved in every discovery, every encounter. What’s more, time and again you have proven yourself incapable of simply stepping aside. Your affection for me—which, based on your history thus far, I can only imagine to be fleeting—would no doubt be a considerable liability, rather than an asset. What good is it to explore, to reach beyond the limits of what we know and what we’re capable of, if we’re accompanied by a being who might, quite literally, reshape existence to our benefit at any given moment?”

“To _your_ benefit.”

“Yes, precisely. You would certainly insist upon interfering, and I cannot permit that, nor agree to any scenario in which it might occur. Do you really expect me to believe that you would stand by and watch as I were injured, or even killed?”

Q shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve done it before.”

“You dragged me through one of the most traumatic experiences of my youth— _twice_ —in order to teach me a lesson, but even so, you didn’t allow me to die.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that you’ve been dwelling on that little jaunt of ours for much longer than you’ve let on,” Q mumbled. He turned so far in the saddle that it twisted the leg closest to Jean-Luc at an angle, and nearly walked his Percheron into the Appaloosa. “Do you mean to tell me that your only objection is the _burden_ of my generosity? That you would withhold from yourself the tremendous experience that is me, all pretenses cast aside, and yours for the taking, simply because I might be _too helpful?_ ”

There were several other reasons, of course, but Jean-Luc had been telling the truth when he said that he knew Q; finding ways around whatever excuses he was provided would prove child’s play for the entity, but he could never deny himself what he loved most.

Q positively _adored_ his own power.

It was, to put it simply, his entire being. His purpose, and his core. And he could no more deny himself _who_ he was than he could set aside _what_ he was. Just as young Amanda Rogers had been unable to stand by and allow others to perish when she had the ability to stop it, Q would be compelled to use his powers for purposes he deemed important. For Q—Q, who had inexplicably forged his notion of a romantic attachment to what he so flippantly deemed a _lesser being_ —anything that threatened his happiness was vitally important.

“Perhaps,” Jean-Luc breathed on a sigh. “If I thought you were capable of restraint, I might be inclined to—” He was cut off by the sudden sensation of a larger body pressed against the full length of his back, and arms wrapped around his waist in an embrace far too intimate for his liking. It took him only a fraction of a second to realize that Q had dismissed his Percheron and seated himself astride the Appaloosa with Jean-Luc.

It took the Appaloosa slightly longer, but when the mare registered the extra weight appearing out of nowhere, she panicked. Jean-Luc knew it was coming before it even happened; she bounced on her front hooves, once, twice, and then she reared up. A shrill, hysterical sound tore from her as she stumbled back on shaking legs and sent both men toppling to the path below. Jean-Luc came down hard on his right side, grunting at the impact. He was already scrambling to pull himself out of the way, but it simply wasn’t fast enough. High above him, looming impossibly larger than she’d seemed from the saddle, the mare hung for a moment before her balance shifted and she came hurtling down, crashing through the spring-green branches reaching out from the side of the path. The pressure of her weight across his leg hit him moments before the pain, but when it came it was relentless. Jean-Luc cried out in agony, clutching at the part of his leg not buried beneath the mare’s flank. Instinct told him to struggle free, but as quickly as she had fallen, the mare was kicking her legs through the air, fighting to regain her footing in the hard-worn dirt and right herself again. She finally managed it, but not without first rocking her weight down on Jean-Luc’s injured leg and ankle. Once she was up, the mare sidestepped nervously, turning in circles and eyeing Q warily, fearful eyes wide and white at the edges.

“This—” Jean-Luc hissed, clutching at his leg uselessly. “This is _exactly_ the sort of—what are you doing?!”

Q was waving his arms at the horse, moving toward it and making noises that Jean-Luc could only assume were meant to frighten the mare. They worked spectacularly; the mare nearly threw herself in the opposite direction, disappearing down the path at a disoriented canter that led her into the underbrush twice before she vanished from sight entirely.

“What have you done, Q?” Jean-Luc demanded. He was struggling to keep the fury from his voice, knowing just how quickly Q’s enthusiasm for new ideas could cool into something far more problematic. He wasn’t afraid of Q, but he had no desire to test the limits of this affection with what he was rapidly beginning to fear might be a broken ankle.

“That beast was threatening you, Jean-Luc. I chased it away. I did that for _you_.” If possible, Q sounded more offended than he had after he’d been turned down. “Was saving you from further injury too _meddlesome_ for your tastes?” he asked.

“Frightening my horse in the first place was too meddlesome!” Jean-Luc all but exploded with the anger he’d been fighting so hard to hold back. He sat sprawled in the dirt, his injured leg stretched out before him and his arms back in an effort to keep himself upright. “Appearing out of nowhere in the guise of some woman was too meddlesome!” he continued, trying to sit up all the way and failing. “And this—this is _just_ the sort of behavior I was referring to in the first place. Look!” He shifted his balance to one arm and used the other to gesture at his ankle. “It’s been ten minutes, Q; you’ve managed to injure me and spook my horse, sending it off who knows where, and you’ve only been here for _ten minutes_. What trust could I ever place in your intentions, be they good or otherwise?” He hesitated to say that Q ever had truly _bad_ intentions. Even at his worst, it had always seemed as though the ends, if not fully justifying the means, at least lent them some validity. Although he would never admit as much to Q. “How could I possibly allow you access to me, to my life, and by extension the lives of my crew, knowing how little you care for the potential consequences of your own actions?”

His tirade concluded, Jean-Luc fell back on both hands again. He watched Q, keenly aware of every brief flash of emotion that crossed the entity’s face, and despite the pain he was distantly fascinated that a being in control of his physical form could so absently betray his own feelings. Q was actually hurt. He was _livid_ , but he was hurt, and it left him silent as he stared hard at the path beneath them.

Of course, Q was only ever silent for so long.

Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Q straightened up and lifted his chin. “Alright. If that’s what it’s going to take,” he muttered. Before Jean-Luc could ask what that meant, Q had stepped over and knelt down beside him. Without looking—without _asking_ —he slipped one arm under Jean-Luc’s knees, braced the other behind his back, and lifted him up into the air in a single sweeping motion. Jean-Luc pressed an elbow against Q’s chest and objected wordlessly, but he wasn’t released. “Stop fussing,” Q snapped. He shifted Jean-Luc’s weight in his arms and started walking back the way they had come. “You’re going to make it infinitely more difficult to carry you if you insist on squirming around in my arms like that.”

“Put me down, Q!”

“Why, so that you can hop back home on your one good leg? What sort of scoundrel would I be if I left you in that state?” Q asked, and for once he actually managed to sound somewhat sincere.

But Jean-Luc had no interest in the evolution of Q’s conscience. He would _not_ be ferried in someone’s arms like a swooning damsel. “The exact sort of scoundrel you are now,” he nearly snarled. “If you’re so incredibly concerned with my well being, you may heal my ankle and go retrieve my horse.”

Q was already shaking his head before Jean-Luc had finished his brief list of demands. “I’m sorry, Jean-Luc, I can’t do either of those things.” He paused. “Well, I suppose I could locate the horse, but I’d have to leave you here to do that, and in that case I must revisit my previous objection to abandoning you in your moment of distress.”

“Distress that is entirely your doing! Are you really saying that you won’t undo the damage you’ve caused? Simply because I said no to your romantic overtures?” It felt even stranger saying it than it had thinking of it. “That is remarkably petty, Q. Even for you.”

Staring down at him, Q seemed aghast at the accusation. His mouth hung slightly open. “If it were up to me, I’d have you back on your feet and on your merry way,” he said, looking up and away as though he didn’t want to discuss the matter while there was even the possibility he might accidentally make eye contact with Jean-Luc. “But you made your feelings on the subject quite clear: my powers are unwelcome, unwanted—they’re a _liability_ . And so, as long as I’m with you, I simply won’t use them. You’ll have me, and _only_ me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, this is turning out longer than I thought. It looks like it will be 3 chapters, not 2. Same deal: expect chapter 3 next weekend. I'm mostly sure that will be the last one.
> 
> Also I imagine Picard is the kind of guy who goes very back-to-basics for fun. Doors with hinges. How quaint.

_As long as I’m with you_. Jean-Luc’s thoughts snagged on those words, hanging there, useless for the time being as he processed the uncomfortable sensation burrowing into the center of his chest. After a moment he cleared his throat. “You and I are not _together_ , Q,” he explained again. “There is no _with me_.”

Q only flattened the ghost of a smirk with an all-too-obvious frown. “In the physical sense, Jean-Luc,” he said as though speaking to a particularly exasperating child. He paused his slow, determined march down the path. With a leer he added, “And not the sort of _physical_ you seem to have in mind, either.”

Jean-Luc’s embarrassment burned to the tips of his ears, and he looked away, over his own shoulder. “This is intolerable,” he muttered to himself, knowing Q could hear it anyway.

“Oh,” Q chided mercilessly, “don’t be such a baby. I’ll take you back to your quaint little cottage, and you can call the _Enterprise_ to come whisk you away, back to your endless expanse of stars and unknowable hazards. The good Doctor Crusher will remedy your wounds, and while she does that you can tell your friends all about big, mean Q, who ruined your precious vacation.”

“I am not a child, Q, don’t treat me as if I were one.”

“In relative terms, you’re little more than that to me, Jean-Luc. You hail from a race of bungling infants, convinced of their great wisdom and infallibility. I’ve known flatworms with more modesty. But if it helps, I like you all the same, regardless of your shortcomings.”

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes. I’m quite relieved to know I’ve earned your approval despite my inherent failings as a life form.”

“As well you should be.”

“You know, one might have thought this sort of thing beneath you,” Jean-Luc said. He had tucked his arms across his chest in an effort to minimize contact with Q. “Fraternization with a lesser being? From what I’d gathered you see us as little more than beasts with above-average intelligence.”

Q shrugged one shoulder, and it set Jean-Luc off balance for just a moment, making him grasp at the lapel of Q’s jacket to steady himself. “If that were the case, Jean-Luc, I wouldn’t waste my time with you. The horse would undoubtedly be much more amenable to my advances.”

“I was wrong, Q: it isn’t that you’re incorrigible, it’s that you’re _shameless_.”

“Shame is a concept invented by you mortals to curb your base desires for the sake of maintaining control over one another. I have no need of it.”

“Clearly not,” Jean-Luc muttered. He sat in Q’s arms for some time after that, hyper aware of the uncharacteristic silence that surrounded them both. Finally it became too much; the silence and the closeness felt as though it had wrapped around him, holding him tighter than Q’s arms. “Let me down, Q,” he complained. “Enough of this game.”

“Tell me, Jean-Luc,” Q began, and that strange sincerity was back in his voice. “If this were a game, if I were only here for some nefarious purpose which I have yet to reveal, what would I stand to gain? What could I possibly want?”

Jean-Luc had expected him to keep talking, to insist upon painstakingly explaining whatever point he’d intended to make. But Q only asked his question and then waited. After a moment Jean-Luc realized he really was expecting an answer. One he’d already provided.

“Me,” he said after a moment, knowing without needing confirmation that it was the correct answer. “Q, you can’t really expect me to believe—”

“And _if_ I were here only to toy with you, to tug your strings and amuse myself with the resulting dance, do you really think I would have _told you_ why I’d come? That I wouldn’t have simply worked my considerable charm and seduced you without bothering to offer a word of warning?”

Jean-Luc’s objections fell flat on his tongue. He kept his palms tucked against his sides, remaining as far from the arms and torso pressed against his as possible—which wasn’t very far at all, he discovered quickly. It was odd; despite having touched him before and knowing he was as “real” as he wanted to be, Jean-Luc had always thought of Q as something unreal, even intangible, in a way. That the facsimile he inhabited when interacting with the crew of the _Enterprise_ was only a thin shell. But now, held close to Q’s broad chest, it felt very real. And very solid. Q’s talk of seduction was not making it any easier to ignore the strange intimacy of the moment.

As the neared the end of the riding path and the trees began to thin around them, he took a deep breath and said, “This little demonstration of yours has already failed, you know.”

Q nearly missed a step. He seemed genuinely surprised by the sudden declaration. “Pardon?”

“This attempt to prove your restraint.” He shifted just a bit, turning to look up at Q. “You’ve carried me nearly two kilometers without pause, without so much as a bead of sweat on your brow; Q, you may not be using your powers overtly, but you _are_ using them.”

“Yes, well, impressive strength is but one side effect of packing all this grandeur into such a limited form, Jean-Luc.” He scoffed. “If you’re going to be that picky, taking corporeal form at all is technically a use of my powers, but I doubt you would find me as appealing without it.”

“You’re making quite a leap assuming I find you appealing _with_ it.”

Undeterred, Q only fixed him with a lopsided grin. “Please,” he said, drawing out the word until it carried all the sarcasm and arrogance one syllable could possibly contain. “We both know you’re drawn to me, Jean-Luc. This morning only confirmed it.”

“You mean when you disguised yourself—poorly—as some woman? Tell me, what was the point of that, Q? A first attempt at some grand, romantic gesture?” He’d found his footing again, and he had no intention of sacrificing it a second time. When Q pointedly looked away he felt a surge of self-righteous aggravation. It felt far more satisfying than it should have. “Oh, yes, that left quite an impression, Q. Quite an impression. You would like for me to take this newfound sincerity of yours at face value, and believe that you have legitimate, romantic feelings for me, yet you began the day shrouded in a lie. Why? Why not appear as yourself?”

“You’re a charmingly limited creature, Jean-Luc, really. It’s a wonder I can love you at all. I’m no more that woman than I am this man. Or the flea I was yesterday. Or the—”

“What?” Jean-Luc tensed in his arms, his neck bent at an awkward angle to stare up at Q, who had caught himself too late to take back those unintended words. He might have concocted a clever lie if he had been fast enough, but his wide-eyed stare into the distance was as good as a written confession. They stopped there, in the middle of the path, and Jean-Luc started to speak without meaning to. He was unaware of what he’d been saying until most of it was already out there, hanging between them. “ _Love,_ Q? That’s… It’s too far.” He looked down at nothing. Perhaps he was looking at himself, but he didn’t really _see_ anything. Only anger. It quickened his pulse, and he felt the throb of it in his ankle. It made his fingers curl against his sides. “You cannot truly be so cruel, so carelessly manipulative. Not even you.”

A moment later Q started walking again, but this time his silence lasted all the way back to the cottage.

 

  
“Yes, it was… an unfortunate accident,” Jean-Luc said. He eyed the door; Q had gone almost two hours earlier, leaving without a word. He supposed it was possible Q might have simply stepped outside to disappear in his usual fashion, keeping to his promise not to use his powers in Jean-Luc’s vicinity, but for some reason he didn’t think that was the case.

 _“We’re tied up here for at least another forty hours, maybe forty-eight. It’ll take the_ Enterprise _an additional twelve to reach you.”_

“No, your mission takes priority, Number One; I’ll make do in the meantime. I’m—” He hesitated, cleared his throat. “I’m not alone here.”

If he’d been there, on the bridge, he would have expected to see a curious tilt of the head and a questioning look from Will. Certainly the rumors would be rampant by the time he returned to the ship. Will’s brief silence was confirmation enough that he, at least, had already drawn his own conclusions, regardless of the lack of context. _“Well. Let us know if your situation changes,”_ he said, and Jean-Luc was certain he could hear a smile. _“Or if you decide to stay after all.”_

Jean-Luc frowned at the empty space around him. “Focus on your mission, Will. I’ll be just fine here.”

_“Of course, Captain. Riker out.”_

There was a soft knock at the door only a few seconds later, and Jean-Luc sighed. Q had been waiting outside. “Yes, yes, come in,” he called. He made no effort to hide his frustration.

Q came through the door, covered in dirt and grime from from head to toe, his hair tousled, and his black coat generously decorated with twigs and leaves. He looked as though he’d been wrestling with half the forest. “I found the horse,” he announced in a flat voice.

“Did you really go looking for it?” Jean-Luc asked incredulously. He wouldn’t have put it past Q to fake the signs of struggle, but something about his appearance seemed genuine, when everything else was so often just a show.

“No, Jean-Luc, I let the horse find _me_. All of this,” he gestured to himself with a flourish, “was just an aesthetic choice made at the spur of the moment—no pun intended.”

“Come now, Q, there’s no need for sarcasm. An honest day’s work looks good on you.”

Q straightened up a bit, and Jean-Luc winced at himself. He hadn’t meant to invite further advances, not after Q’s careless slip of the tongue earlier. He was still annoyed about that, even if his temper had cooled somewhat. “Yes, well,” Q said after a moment, having apparently read the shift in the mood correctly, “I believe I’ll go…” He heaved a great sigh and braced his weight against the door frame, looking down at the floor in shame. “ _Take a bath_.”

“What a terrible burden,” Jean-Luc muttered. “When you’re done, since you are so keen to make up for your mistakes through self-enforced labor, perhaps you could bring me some tea.”

That earned him an icy glare; the cold depths of space were in those furious eyes as he stared down at the man sitting across from him. It was delightfully amusing. “Watch it, Picard,” Q warned. There was no weight to his threat, no real force. If he hadn’t been fighting it, Jean-Luc would have smiled.

Q pushed off from the door frame and started up the stairs. His boots made thick scraping sounds as he dragged them up each wooden step, one by one.

“Earl Grey,” Jean-Luc called after him when he’d reached the top. He was answered by an indiscernible grumble and the heavy slam of a door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to thank her before, so I'd like to express my appreciation to my friend Precira for being my very patient source of French phrases. I chose to learn every language I'd never wind up using, apparently.
> 
> (The Percheron was also a nod for you, but it's like the weirdest nod ever. Still, I tried.)

He tipped the cup back and finished the last of his tea, setting it down on the saucer with a tiny _clink_. “I’m curious to know when you even learned to _make_ tea, Q,” he said. “As I recall, the last time you did anything so remotely mundane, you were without your powers and you couldn’t even comprehend the basics of hunger and sleep.”

“Forewarned is forearmed, Jean-Luc. The next time they decide to strip me of my powers I won’t be so easily cowed into satisfying their terms.”

“You say that as though you expect to be punished by the Continuum for some transgression in the near future.” _Near_ being an entirely relative concept in Q’s case, of course.

“I expect nothing of them, and everything. Life among the Q is all at once blind trust and total, unflinching suspicion, you know.” Q sat back in the chair he had pulled over by the couch and stretched his legs. Jean-Luc wondered if he truly felt fatigue from physical exertion, and if so, why he’d done it at all. No one could see him to make sure he was keeping to his word about using his powers, after all. “And I doubt it’s escaped your notice that I’m not the most agreeable being in the cosmos—a fact of which I’m quite proud, mind you. No, I wouldn’t put it past them to make a habit of disgracing me whenever possible. Like a holiday, but one celebrating the slow forging of my humility and resignation.”

“That sounds rather exhausting,” Jean-Luc said. “You have my sympathy.”

He expected Q to scoff at his pity and refuse to accept it. Yet again he was surprised to find that his words only seemed to make Q retreat into a short silence. Strange. He must have been sincere with Q on more than one occasion in the past, hadn’t he?

“Regardless,” he continued after some time, “I doubt you could ever be so tamed, Q.”

Q raised a curious eyebrow. “Tamed, Jean-Luc? What an interesting choice, that word.” He crossed his arms and looked down at Jean-Luc with a smirk that made all desires of sympathy evaporate instantly. “Especially considering what it is I’m offering, and what I’m willing to do just to prove myself to you. I’m beginning to think you don’t really appreciate this for the monumental opportunity that it is.”

Rather than answer, Jean-Luc glanced at his empty teacup. Q continued to watch him for a moment longer, and then his eyes flicked to the small table where the saucer and cup sat waiting.

Q sighed. “More tea?” It was presented not as an offer, but a put-upon confirmation of the not-so-subtle hint.

“Please.”

While Q rattled around and talked to himself in the nearby kitchen, Jean-Luc took the time to consider their conversation from earlier in the day. Everything he had previously dismissed out of hand, but which could prove far more significant than assumed when examined in a different light.

In that light he asked himself: had he ever treated Q as though he were anything more than an inconvenient trickster? A problem that only required a solution? Certainly Q had been a proud and inexcusably careless visitor—if such an innocuous label could be applied to his unannounced, unwelcomed appearances. He had caused them undue hardship and preyed upon their inability to stop him. He had been wrong. He had _done_ wrong. But when Q had appeared on the bridge of the Enterprise, stripped of more than his power, how had they—how had Jean-Luc himself—behaved?

Dismissive. Cold. Jean-Luc remembered feeling more than a bit righteous, looking down upon his formerly godlike tormentor as he lounged listless and bound behind something as simple as a force field.

Jean-Luc may have earned those feelings, and done so tenfold, at that, but the fact remained that they had been beneath him.

And yet, something in Q’s smug assurance of his own innate superiority had always struck the one nerve that could make him slip a toe over the line of right and wrong. Q had always known just what to say and do to reveal the breaks in his armor so that he could crawl inside. Somehow, that morning, he had done it again. Only this time Jean-Luc wasn’t certain it had been on purpose.

In response to the overtures of affection which he had assumed to be part of yet another cruel and clever game, he had dismissed Q, mocking his supposed intentions. And although it had resulted in what he now (thankfully) suspected to be no more than a mild sprain, he had even challenged Q’s earnestness and extended vague promises of something that, at the time, he’d had no intention of fulfilling. Yet again, Q had met his demands—albeit not _quite_ the way Jean-Luc had anticipated.

Not that he believed he could ever really hope to anticipate Q.

Q, who had come to profess his feelings in his own awkward, inappropriate way. Who had gotten it all wrong from the very first possible moment, and then stumbled his way through regardless, clearly hoping for the best despite receiving the worst. Who had been genuinely hurt when Jean-Luc angrily refused his unintended confession, when Jean-Luc had dismissed the notion that he could possess any feelings at all. He’d listened to the accusations of manipulation, bit back on what were no doubt a veritable universe of terrible rebuttals he might have offered, and then carried Jean-Luc back to the cottage in silence.

Those thoughts made Jean-Luc’s chest feel uncomfortably heavy. His mind rejected what that meant; what he had started to suspect when he first justified offering Q _any_ hope of reciprocation. No. It simply wasn’t possible, and— What was he doing? What was he thinking? Q was _Q—_ an irresponsible, infuriating menace. Arrogant beyond measure. A temperamental god with next to no restraint and all the time, knowledge, and power in the cosmos at his fingertips.

Jean-Luc massaged his temples with a frown. Q was all of those things, and he had gracelessly confessed his love for a mere human being. He had been stunned and humiliated when he’d realized what he said. And despite quite literally having the power to undo it all and save himself the trouble, he had nevertheless soldiered on with that soul-bearing admission hanging in the air between them.

“ _Non mais sérieusement,_ ” Jean-Luc whispered into the space between his elbows. “What am I thinking?”

He lowered his arms again as Q came striding back into the room, all of his focus centered on the teacup and saucer in his hands. His brow was set in a determined scowl as he swung them slowly toward the table and set them down with more care than he’d shown at any point in the entirety of the seven years they had known one another.

“Tea,” Q said, pointing to the cup. He was proud of himself. For making tea. Or perhaps for not spilling that tea, it was difficult to say for sure.

Jean-Luc made a decision then. He ignored the tea, ignored Q’s petulant frown when he didn’t even acknowledge the tea’s presence, and swung his legs over the side of the couch.

“What are you doing?” Q demanded.

“I’m getting up. I’m leaving.”

“ _Leaving?_ ”

Jean-Luc spared him a quick nod. He brushed off the hand that Q hooked under his arm to assist him and stumbled sideways onto his bad ankle, and _oh_ , did that _hurt_. Not broken, but certainly in no shape to support his weight.

Q kept trying to reach for him, unconcerned that he was rebuffed every time. “Don’t be a fool, Picard, sit down!”

Grinding his teeth against the pain, Jean-Luc shook his head and began to half-shuffle, half-limp toward the door. He didn’t have very far to go, but it may as well have been light years for all the progress he was making on his swollen ankle. Q kept pace beside him. He sidestepped over and over, one arm in front of Jean-Luc as though that would stop him. The other waved frantically in whatever direction best illustrated his frustration at that particular second.

Finally Jean-Luc reached the door, and he let his entire weight sag against the frame, one shoulder pressed to the rough wood. He was sweating. His jaw felt tight. Q himself had gone silent, and for just a moment he closed his eyes in an attempt to quell the pain. When he opened them again he found Q watching him; more confusion, of course, and no small amount of anger—but more than anything, concern. Jean-Luc rolled himself against the door frame until his back was leaning against the wall beside the door. All of his weight was on his good leg, but it did nothing to ease the throbbing ache that was now pounding through his body.

“Take me back to the couch, Q,” he asked quietly. Q didn’t hesitate; he repeated the same steps from before, lifting Jean-Luc into his arms as easily as dried reeds—it was no less galling the second time, unfortunately.

Q said nothing as he deposited Jean-Luc back on the couch. He said nothing for what felt like a very long time, in fact, and then he finally took a deep breath, huffed it back out as a sigh, and turned to leave.

“I apologize,” Jean-Luc said to his back.

He pressed on when Q halted his retreat. “I was ...testing you,” he admitted, somewhat sheepish now that the words were actually spoken. “I thought, perhaps, if I pushed you—”

“You thought you might trick me into using my powers, breaking my word? How evolved, Picard.”

So, he was still just  _Picard_. It was a convenient measure of Q’s general mood, at least. He nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

That, Jean-Luc realized when he opened his mouth to answer, was not so easy to explain. Or rather, it was easy enough to explain, but he suddenly found himself bereft of all the ways to say it. His sympathy for Q’s earlier awkwardness was instantly acute, and he wasn’t even admitting to anything. Not really.

“I needed to know,” he finally said after what felt like an eternity spent suffering under Q’s intense stare. “So that if we—if I allow this—”

The change that came over Q then was instantaneous and almost alarming. He jerked back as though he’d been struck, and then he stepped forward. “Jean-Luc.”

It really was going to become a problem if an act as simple as the use of his given name caused him so much relief. Or worse, _joy_.

Oh, this was certainly a mistake.

“This was hardly a matter of life-or-death, of course,” Jean-Luc pressed on, ignoring how Q loomed over him. There was something incredibly distracting about it. The realization told him nothing he wanted to hear at the moment, however, and so he set it aside. “Frankly, I’m in no rush to test your dedication in that particular regard, either.” His eyes followed Q as the other man lowered himself until he was kneeling in front of the couch. In front of _him_. That, Jean-Luc noted with a small gasp, told him a number of things he _did_ wish to hear. Apparently—and much to his own surprise. When Q put a hand on his his injured ankle, Jean-Luc froze.

“Call me selfish, Jean-Luc, but I believe I’d be in a better position to enjoy your lovely and somewhat uncoordinated explanation if it wasn’t filtered through your own pain, first. If you would be so kind as to briefly release me from my promise, I’ll negate this minor inconvenience.” The words were mocking, but his tone was surprisingly gentle. His hand was warm on the skin exposed by Jean-Luc’s rolled-up pant leg.

“You only consider it minor because it isn’t your ankle,Q.”

Q smirked up at him. “And here you were worried that I would be so overwhelmed by my need to help you that I’d put your mission in jeopardy. Now, the promise?”

There was no sense reprimanding Q for his cheek, and so Jean-Luc chose to focus on the one thing he might have some measure of success addressing. “Q, this was all your doing. I’ve placed no obligations on you, and I have no power to release you from them.”

“Oh, but you do,” Q said quickly. He left his hand on Jean-Luc’s ankle, but the bulk of his frame leaned closer to the couch, and, as a result, Jean-Luc’s other leg. “The conditions were your doing, if indirectly. But the fact remains: you told me to jump, and I asked _how high_.” He paused briefly, his eyes nearly a cosmic force in their own right as they pinned Jean-Luc to the back of the couch. Then he shrugged one shoulder, looked down again, and muttered, “Although, I suppose under the circumstances it’s more a matter of _how low_.”

“You will never be happy withholding a part of yourself. Not even if you obtain something you desire in return. You will resent me.” Q couldn’t even stop himself from casually flinging backhanded insults at lower life forms as a matter of habit. He certainly wouldn’t appreciate being forced to live as one for—

For how long, exactly?

As though Q could read his thoughts—and he could, of course, but Jean-Luc was now certain he would remain true to his word in that regard, as well—the entity looked up at him and smiled that same condescending smile he seemed to favor so much. “I have no intention of shadowing you through the halls of your ship, waiting patiently for whatever scraps of attention you’re willing to offer me between your endless obligations and hours of flute practice. I have my own life to live, you know.”

“I very much doubt you are capable of waiting patiently for anything, Q,” Jean-Luc said.

“I’ve waited for you, haven’t I?”

He must have said or done something, because in the blink of an eye Q had surged up from the floor, taking Jean-Luc’s shoulders in his hands as he kissed him. It couldn’t be called surreal—it was no more than a kiss, after all—and yet it was, and without realizing it he’d twisted his own fingers into the front of Q’s shirt, pulling him closer. There was something aching and desperate in the crush of their mouths and the heat of Q’s tongue against his own. Jean-Luc knew he’d made some needy sound, and while he was attempting to wrap his mind around that, Q slipped one knee onto the couch between his thighs. That was… it was not what he’d expected to come of this conversation.

Q’s hands moved from his shoulders, one sliding up to cup the side of his jaw, the other venturing down. Hesitant fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, and then a warm palm was suddenly pressed against his stomach, moving back up to curl around his side. Q made a frustrated noise, and then Jean-Luc found himself abruptly pushed sideways and pressed back against the couch. He was lying across the cushions now. Q was still above him, his broad shoulders and arms framing Jean-Luc’s, and yes—yes, he liked that very much, as it turned out.

“You’re going to let me have you, won’t you, Jean-Luc?” Q asked breathlessly. His fingers were working deftly down the line of buttons on the front of his own shirt until there was nowhere left to go but down further still. How odd, to see him engaged in such a human behavior. But he seemed totally absorbed in the moment; thoughts of how easily he could render all obstacles irrelevant apparently had no place in the space between them.

Jean-Luc drew in a short breath and held it. Bidding farewell to whatever doubts still lingered, he reached up and set his palms flat against Q’s chest. He was so warm.

Q reached between them and tugged at the catch of his trousers, and Jean-Luc stopped thinking. He shot up from the couch and caught Q in another kiss. He threaded the fingers of one hand through the curly brown hair at the back of Q’s head and pulled him in, as close as he could manage without bruising himself with Q’s lips. His other hand joined Q’s, nearly ripping the conjured fabric in his haste. It seemed Q liked that _very_ much, because a moment later urgency became a frantic race to push as much of their clothing out of the way as possible. No time to remove it fully—Q only shoved his own trousers down around his hips and then reached for Jean-Luc’s.

“I’m going to do things to you that you wouldn’t _believe,_ ” Q rumbled in his ear. His fingers found the way into Jean-Luc’s waistband and tugged, leaving nothing but skin pressed to agonizingly hot and hard skin. “Later,” he amended, tucking his chin against his chest to admire the view between them. “For now, this—”

Jean-Luc gasped. “Shut _up,_ Q.”

Q looked up, and the wicked gleam in his eye might have given Jean-Luc pause, if not for the hand that he slipped between them. Warm fingers closed around his length _and_ Q’s, and Jean-Luc rolled his hips up into the touch; chasing the delicious ache that crawled through him at the sudden sensation. The slide of skin on skin made him groan, and he pulled at the brown hair tangled around his fingers, demanding more. Q must have taken that for the encouragement it was meant to be, because he tucked his face into the crook of Jean-Luc’s neck and began to thrust. Slowly at first, he pushed into his own hand and let the lazy drag of hot flesh do the work for him. He seemed to be muttering something still—the words were lost in the panting, gasping breaths between each push. When he lifted his head and looked down into Jean-Luc’s eyes, brow pressed to the one below his, it was almost ...almost perfect.

Q continued to work himself against Jean-Luc, hips rocking faster now. He painted kisses across Jean-Luc’s lips and down the side of his jaw, licked his ears and groaned against the damp line of his collar. He whispered things that Jean-Luc could _feel,_ pooling hot in his center and building with every filthy word.

“This is…” Jean-Luc’s fingers clawed at Q’s shoulders and he arched into each thrust, acting more on instinct than anything. He bit his lip, and then Q bit it again for good measure. A gentle nip that sent a shiver down Jean-Luc’s spine. “Q, I’m—I—” He was too far gone to manage a complete thought, but Q understood.

“Let go, Jean-Luc, I’ve got you,” Q breathed against his cheek. “My beautiful, _vexing_ little mortal.” He said the words so much awe, so much genuine affection, and for a split second Jean-Luc felt that same weight in his chest that he’d felt before. The feeling of heaviness that had been so uncomfortable, but now felt good and _right,_ exactly where it was.

With a gasp that rose sharp and came back down as a groan, Jean-Luc shuddered and bucked, and his body gave in to the heat and the pressure that felt as though it had been building for hours. He felt Q’s forehead drop against his shoulder, and there was an answering jerk of the other man’s hips that somehow sent another pang of arousal straight through his center. Down to where Q’s hand still held them both through the last waves of climax. The sensation of slick warmth joined Q’s fingers and palm, and a flush of minor embarrassment rolled over Jean-Luc at the realization. He’d just… They had both just…

“Yes, we did,” Q said, his tone just as self-assured as always.

“Reading my thoughts is using your powers, Q,” Jean-Luc informed him between attempts to catch his breath. He could only stare up at the ceiling and frown; the energy it would take to lift his head was a long time in coming.

“Your faith in me is ever-inspiring,” Q said sarcastically as he pushed himself up and sat back on his heels. “Nevertheless, you said that out loud.” He was still between Jean-Luc’s legs. His clothes were a wrinkled and stained mess, bunched at his hips or hanging from his shoulders. Despite the disarray, he still looked the part of the unsuitable rogue; now Jean-Luc was certain he matched, inadvertently playing the role of Q’s debauched society lover in this farcical romance. What a pair they would make.

Jean-Luc realized something then, and he rolled his head to the side to look down. “My ankle.”

Q held up his hands. “I confess, I did fix that much. But in my defense, as you pointed out, it _was_ my fault.” He paused, dropping his arms briefly before crossing them over his chest. “And you never told me not to. Is this what you consider pillow talk, Picard? I had hoped for a _bit_  more.”

Jean-Luc chuckled. He must have hit his head when he’d fallen; there was no other explanation for allowing this madness to go as far as it had. To consider allowing it to go further still. “Don’t tell me you’re a romantic, Q.” He gazed down the couch and tried to mimic one of Q’s arrogant smirks. “Am I to expect roses and chocolates as well?”

“I made you tea, don’t get greedy.”

Jean-Luc hummed, letting that serve as his answer. When Q left the couch and returned a short time later with something to clean up, he arched a curious eyebrow. “You really do mean to keep this promise of yours,” he said. It was half-question, half-observation.

“If I accomplish nothing else in my infinite existence, managing to convince Captain Jean-Luc Picard of my sincerity will have made it all worthwhile. Assuming I’m ever able.”

“Assuming,” Jean-Luc said. He pushed himself up on one elbow and reached for the cloth Q was holding.

“I brought this for myself, get your own,” Q frowned, holding it aside. After a moment he relented on his teasing and passed it over. He watched Jean-Luc tidy himself and straighten his clothes, and then shift back until he was sitting up against the arm of the couch once more. “Do you still doubt that I meant it?” he asked suddenly. In the silence of the small cottage the question felt like a shout.

It could have been anything that Q had said before referenced in that question, but Jean-Luc knew exactly what he was asking without needing another word to guide him. “In your own way, I believe you meant it,” he said. Time would tell just what his notion of love entailed, however.

Q seemed to relax. Apparently he was happy to work with halfway, at least for now. He was leaning on the other arm of the couch, down by Jean-Luc’s feet. His clothes were back in order—or close to it, anyway. He’d done nothing that could be considered the work of his powers, and as he looked for evidence of it, Jean-Luc found that he felt guilty for feeling the need to check; he could extend that much trust, couldn’t he?

After all, if they were going to do this…

“I’m not sure what’s gotten into me,” he started to say. A snicker from Q stopped him. “Don’t be lewd, Q.” He looked aside and found he couldn’t fight the twitch at the corners of his mouth. “You haven’t yet, anyway.”

 _That_ had Q practically leaping to his feet. “I knew there was a playful side to you, Jean-Luc. Oh, we’re going to have such a good time.” He dropped down over Jean-Luc with one knee on the edge of the couch, an arm braced on the back and the other curling a finger beneath Jean-Luc’s chin. “You haven’t the slightest _clue_ what you’re in for,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous in a way that made Jean-Luc hold his breath. Q leaned in just close enough to brush his lips against the corner of Jean-Luc’s mouth and whisper, “But I promise you’ll enjoy _every single second of it_.”

 

 

Will swiveled the chair to face the small screen on the captain’s desk. They were still mired in their efforts to wrap up the current mission, and he felt the strain of it pulling at him from all sides. The faint beeping that indicated a waiting message worked its way through his exhaustion and he flicked a finger at the device to accept. His frown slowly worked its way into a grin as he read the words on the screen:

`Canceling my previous request for an early return, Will. It seems you were right. I’ll be staying for the full length of my leave, after all.`

He acknowledged the message and turned the chair back to face the long, vertical window behind the desk. “See you in a week,” he said, still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. It's very likely this will be the last Q/Picard fic I write. I hope you enjoyed it.


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